


The Strength and the Compassion

by gypsyweaver



Series: A Tale of Crowns and Coins [29]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beelzebub Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Gabriel Has a Penis (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nonbinary Beelzebub (Good Omens), Other, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Trauma, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27803035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gypsyweaver/pseuds/gypsyweaver
Summary: As Gabriel carries them to bed, Beelzebub contemplates safety--namely theirs--and how little they've had of it in their existence.While waiting for word of Hell's victory over Heaven, the Strength of God and the one who was once God's Compassion comfort one another.(I put the smut in here.)
Relationships: Beelzebub & Dagon (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Raphael (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Sandalphon (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens)
Series: A Tale of Crowns and Coins [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684990
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	The Strength and the Compassion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [insufficient_fishes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/insufficient_fishes/gifts).



> CW: Rape, abuse, traumatized Beelzebub, smut

When had Beelzebub ever felt safe?

Not as an Archangel in the Garden. Every action was planned, every word weighed--everything to try and stay the dreadful wrath of their master. Raphael was anything but constant, and his moods and whims changed with the breezes. Inconstant as a stormcloud, a word from Remiel might shatter the grey and send sunlight across the leaves. Or, it might bring down the fury.

The same word at different times would garner different results. Remiel never knew what Raphael wanted, except obedience.

And their blood and their body, both given meekly and graciously.

But it never mattered how much they bled for him, Raphael could not be satisfied.

And after, newly Fallen, healing the others as Lucifer pulled them from the flames. Their new master was as cruel as their first one. He was jealous, as well. Unlike Raphael, who barely let them in the company of their peers, Lucifer did not fear someone stealing them away.

Lucifer saw how easily they worked with the other Fallen, and how easily they led, once leadership was given to them.

His fury when Remiel--not yet renamed--was unable to heal him of his horns and red skin and goatly nethers?

To say that he beat them would do an insult to the word. Beating does not encompass the gravity of the damage that he did to them.

In fact, their subsequent courage came from the firm knowledge that Lucifer had not destroyed them in his rage.

After, as a Prince of Hell, capable of discorporating most demons with a simple miracle? Even then, they had known no peace. Lucifer’s fury was the same as Raphael’s, except that he lacked Raphael’s inconsistency. He was ALWAYS angry.

And he never, ever accepted that the demons were a part of God’s plans. That every setback and every failure was by Her design--and therefore unavoidable. That God had chosen her special favorites, and the demons were useful tools to test the humans, test the angels, build and shape her world.

Under Lucifer, Beelzebub’s successes were never grand enough, and their tiniest failures were harshly punished. He only touched them to hurt them.

He sent them above, and in some times, it was pleasant. They’d built Ekron, had they not? Perhaps the closest to safe that they’d ever felt was playing the part of Ba’al in the temple, but these things do not last.

Knocked out by a chunk of ice that fell from the sky, kept prisoner in an amphora in Elijah’s tent, and subjected to a year and a day of Sandalphon and Nuriel.

It wasn’t always painful, and that made it worse. Sandalphon liked to watch Nuriel play with them, and as much as she hated them, she never could bring herself to do too much damage. She was still very young--they all were.

There was a moment when she might not have become the frozen monster that she became. She’d come to the amphora prison alone, leaving Sandalphon in his Elijah skin (in Israfil’s care, presumably).

Beelzebub saw the knife in her hand, and stood before her, nude and unafraid.

“Please...” they’d asked.

She’d dug the point into their chest, but she had not broken skin that time. They closed their hands around hers.

“Please...” they repeated.

In the end, Nuriel had dropped the knife and every pretense. She shoved Beelzebub away and wept. She dropped to her knees in that horrible prison, and wept for her love of Sandalphon.

Sandalphon, horribly unworthy Sandalphon, who cast Nuriel aside for Beelzebub. Who scorned her love for the ability to manipulate his powerless (miracle-free) enemy like a puppet.

She had needed comfort then, and Beelzebub had tried to provide it. It felt natural, but compassion would always be their first inclination.

Nuriel shoved them away from her and dried her own tears. She took her knife and left.

If she had stayed, maybe she would not have ended up as she did. And, maybe, an alliance with Nuriel would have given them something like safety in a decidedly unsafe time.

Freed by Metatron and back in Hell, they awaited Lucifer’s judgment. Lucifer’s reaction to the news was cold and detached. His punishment came quickly, his fury at their failure left them bleeding and barely breathing.

Dagon had fetched Beelzebub out of the throne room and back to their own spare quarters to recover. She did not leave their side, whispering vengeance against Sandalphon and Nuriel.

It struck them, as their meager miracles cracked a rib into place and began to knit it, that they would have preferred vengeance against Lucifer.

He never touched them except to punish them.

Except in the creation of their son.

Lucifer did not want them. Beelzebub knew that the Morning Star never loved any as he loved himself. And Beelzebub bore no resemblance to Lucifer before his Fall. Perhaps if they did, he could have summoned up some lust.

It took him a very long time to accomplish the act. And, as was Her wont, God stole Beelzebub’s miracles. They could not help him become erect, nor speed him towards orgasm.

It had to be accomplished naturally, and it was. With an audience of half of Hell looking on. Beelzebub had bled for it.

They had borne the child in blood and pain, as all who bear children must. They bore him as a mortal would.

The end of the world might have brought them some peace. They would, ostensibly, be dead by the end of it. Or, potentially victorious, depending on whether God gave the demons a fair shot.

Crowley and sweet Aziraphale were not responsible for aversion of that end. Compassion won out, and Beelzebub had allowed Crowley and Aziraphale to watch over the wrong boy, to ship the wrong boy to Megiddo. Maybe the location was important, but not for any magical reasons.

Who knows what that son of theirs might have done without his friends to temper his worser impulses?

Oh, but Beelzebub did not wish to think about Raphael nor Lucifer, nor even their beautiful sons. Not right now. Not when they felt so safe.

Safety was not something that God had given to the Archangel of Compassion. Little and less to the Lord of the Flies. But, as Gabriel carried them past the bright, beautiful kitchen, still redolent with coffee--as he mounted the stairs to their bedroom--a room that Beelzebub very much wanted to think of as belonging to both of them--they felt safe.

They felt safe with him. Safety was an illusion, and they were no fool. God could still take away everything, at any time, for whatever reason. For no reason. And Beelzebub had no recourse.

But if this safety was an illusion, they’d take it. They’d take their sips of happiness wherever they came and be grateful. For this temporary peace, for Hell’s victory, and for Gabriel. For his love.

The hall light lit with a miracle, and another lit the lights over the bed when Gabriel carried them across the threshold. The silvery light of twilight leaked through the heavy drapes.

He sat them on the edge of the bed, handling them like something delicate, something precious. Gabriel went to his knees before them, taking their hands in his.

Was there anything left to say? Beelzebub didn’t think so. They’d peeled back their skin for him, as Raphael once did under the oak tree. They’d held out their liver and lungs, their pulsing heart.

Gabriel had taken it all in--their blood and bile, the nerves that clustered just below their sternum. Every part of them, he’d seen. And he knelt before them, holding their hands. He heard it all, and he was still with them.

Two tears slipped from their eyes, but only the two.

“You alright?” he asked.

His face changed so quickly, from concern to abashedness. He knew they weren’t alright. It was the wrong question. But they loved him for it.

They smiled as they pulled their hands from his and reached for his face. They guided him to them, and pressed their lips to his.

“I’m not,” they said, between kisses. “But you make it better.”

They pulled at his clothes, and he began to remove them. They used a miracle for their own, leaving them neatly hung in their wardrobe. When they looked down, they realized that they had not undone any of Sandalphon’s forced feminizations, nor emptied their breasts.

Well, Gabriel could empty their breasts. And he had been good with the rest, as well.

They leaned back on the bed to watch him. Gabriel’s need had made him clumsy, and he was charming in his efforts to free himself from his clothes. The jacket was crumpled on the floor, and the tie had followed, quickly. The buttons on his shirt seemed to vex him, but the cast of butter yellow light across his skin was all the more delicious for how long it took him to reveal that skin. He managed the undershirt with one strong tug, and laid it in the growing pile of pastel fabric on their floor. The belt gave him more trouble.

“Come,” they said.

He obeyed, stepping up to them and allowing their dexterous fingers to undo the buckle, unbutton the trousers and unzip them. He stepped back and thumbed the waistband of both the trousers and underpants. They fell in the same sweep, and Gabriel stepped out of them.

God crafted him beautifully, but even so, the golden light favored him. Cast against his skin, he looked like the golden idols that he had inspired. Though warmer, made flesh and alive.

His face was a wonder, a gentle smile, the eagerness of his eyes. He looked at them with reverence and desire.

Gabriel approached them at the edge of the bed, and knelt again. His hands on their knees were warm, and when he pressed, they opened for him.

Beelzebub leaned back, bracing their palms on the quilt. They felt his lips find the inside of one knee, and then the other. They sighed. His lips were warm. His breath was warmer. He kissed one and then the other, working his way up. His hands left their knees and went to their hips as they opened for him. Wider for him.

They were not expecting him to yank them forward, but his did. He pulled their ass nearly off of the bed, and Beelzebub lost their purchase on the quilt. They slammed back into the bed, laughing as they did. As Gabriel carefully shouldered their left and then their right leg, and went back to his kissing.

He kissed their thighs, and then knelt up, to kiss their belly and to wend his way from their navel down. He laid kisses on the thicket of hair that they’d grown for Sandalphon, and then below, to the lips that waited for him.

Beelzebub gasped when his warm tongue sank into them. He thumbed over their lips, and then began to work their clit. Little circles, like the ones that he had used on their thighs, at the lip of the fountain.

They squirmed under his mouth and hands, crying out for him as they felt their tension build. Every breath carried them higher, carried them closer.

Gabriel switched. His mouth took their clit, sucking it inside and teasing it with tongue and gentle teeth. He slipped a finger inside, and they clenched around it.

Probing them with one finger and then two while suckling them, it did not take long. They cried out, feeling the warm rush of pleasure flood their whole being. From the core, where his mouth and hands kept working them, to the tips of their fingers and toes.

It felt warm and golden and glorious. And he did not stop. They squirmed.

“Gabriel?”

But his strong palm laid flat on the ridge of their pelvis. Pressed between his hand and the bed, they could not move. He held them still as his fingers kept moving inside them, as he squeezed a third in. Gabriel’s tongue slid across the sensitive flesh that he had captured with his mouth. Soon, they peaked again.

And again, he did not stop.

After their third climax, he rose, carefully. He kept their knees around his shoulders as he lifted them, moved them further onto the bed and crawled between their knees. After he’d laid them down, his fingers found the milk that had pooled across their chest.

“I never got rid of it,” they said. “After Israfil...and I leak when...”

He smiled, and dipped his mouth down to the pool. They shuddered as he began to clean them, to drink. And below, they could feel him nudging them.

They wanted it. They wanted him inside them. They could feel, very acutely, the place that his fingers had vacated. One of their hands wandered to his hair, to stroke his head as he drank. The other reached beneath, to stroke his cock. To guide him.

He moaned as their fingers found him, as they stroked him, as they drew him towards them.

“Please, angel...” they said. “Please...”

Gabriel shifted forward, burying himself inside them.

Even three of his fingers did not stretch them out enough. The feeling of being stretched by him, of their own flesh extending around him! It burned pleasantly, warm and tingly. He took a nipple in his mouth as he waited for them to relax around him.

That felt good, too. His mouth on them, and the slip of fluid from breast to mouth. It felt good to feed him, to give him this little pleasure--nourishment--that God denied him.

And he was moving again. The thrusts were measured and powerful, and each one shoved the air from Beelzebub’s lungs. Their hands clawed at the bedspread as he moved. Gabriel held himself up with one hand as he fed and as he thrust. The other hand slipped between them, between Beelzebub’s legs. He found what he was looking for, and his thumb began to rub gentle circles over it.

They cried out as they came, but he did not stop. He carefully switched hands, leaning on the one that had been at their clit, and moving the other one down. His mouth found the other nipple and he began to draw their milk from them.

Beelzebub gave to him gladly.

They peaked again, and he kept them there. Orgasm after orgasm as he fed from them. His thumb rolling over their needy flesh, pushing them over the edge, through wave after wave of pleasure. Their body was warm with it, with the pulse of blood and the gush of fluids and the sweet slip of their milk.

Once he’d emptied both breasts, he released their clit. Milk-drunk, he rolled until they were on top of him.

Every motion made them shiver, he’d wrung so much pleasure out of them. But they sat up, shaking, with him still buried deep inside.

“My turn?” they asked.

Gabriel nodded at them, and his head fell back, into the quilt.

Beelzebub leaned back, bracing themself on his thighs. They raised themself up and let gravity pull their entire weight back onto him.

Gabriel’s eyes opened as their pelvises collided, and then he smiled.

Beelzebub did it again. They built up a good rhythm, lifting and falling. Like breath, it had its own cadence.

His thumb found their clit and he worked them there. His other hand fell on their waist. He was nearly there, they could feel it in the way his thumb moved over their flesh, in the way his hand clenched at their side.

They leaned forward, and rode him hard. He moaned, and in that moan, they heard their name. Both hands on his chest, they moved, bucking wildly. Their own orgasm ripped through them and a scream tore free from their throat. Beneath them they heard him grunt and felt him fill them with hot gold.

They laid on his chest, pressed their ear to his breast, and found his pulse. His fingers traced their back. He was still inside, and they did not wish to dislodge him. Not yet.

“I love you,” they said, and kissed his chest.

“I love you, too.”

Beyond the glow of the yellow lamps over the bed, night rain pattered the window. Beelzebub listened to it, and the Archangel’s pulse, as sleep overtook them.

They drowsed until the witching hour, when their imp buzzed on the bedside table.

Beelzebub lifted it to their face, letting their eyes adjust to the white-blue glow of it.

Message from Dagon.

“It is finished. We are victorious.”

Gabriel read it as they did. They dropped the little black phone and threw their arms around him.

Something broke inside Beelzebub, and they wept like the child that they were never allowed to be.

**Author's Note:**

> For insufficient_fishes, who has no gifts and gave me kudos on earlier chapters! Thanks!
> 
> Yeah, so I spent a month writing more Signed and Sealed, first update of which should be tomorrow! Yay!
> 
> (I apologize for the month of radio silence! NaNoWriMo is a monster that takes all of my time. Hopefully 26-ish chapters of Signed and Sealed will apologize for me?)
> 
> I am (I hope) two chapters from being done with this beast. One more, and then an epilogue.
> 
> I don't have any notes for this one...Did I miss any obscure references? Let me know in the comments and I am happy to explain.
> 
> Comments and kudos are the dark chocolate and creamy tea of life!


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